


Conception

by Imitari



Series: It Doesn't Have A Name [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bonding, Dom/sub, F/M, Miscarriage, They won't get out of my head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-30
Updated: 2012-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-08 20:55:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imitari/pseuds/Imitari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about children is that they come from parents and parents were once people, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conception

**Author's Note:**

She enjoys his silence as much as his conversation and, she thinks, it's just as well, since he is silent more often than not.  It isn't that he has nothing to say or that he dislikes her.  He's simply a man whose natural language is action.  They fit together, she with her words and him with his silence, and there isn't a person in the world that she loves as much as she loves her bondmate, her husband.

Leif fon Ronsenburg comes from a large family, the eldest of twelve living children, and it shows in his patience, his dedication to work and his loyalty to those he loves.  Maria Gabranth is the second of two children, used to having her way, being humored and  adored from a distance.  Leif does everything he can to provide her with her wants and she does all that she can to understand they are not rich.

He is her knight in shining armor, riding out of the pages of her favorite fantasy novels, a Norse god with his golden hair and eyes as sharp and blue as a winter's unclouded sky.  Sometimes, she thinks she is the earth to his heaven, her brown hair and eyes so unadorned, so naturally listless next to his ethereal glory.  And yet Leif is the one with his feet planted firmly on the ground while her mind takes flight, soars through imagined regions, with such regularity that dinner is, more often than not, overcooked to blackness.  

Leif is not a complainer.  This is good as Maria is not a housewife.  He works and comes home to dirty dishes, unfolded laundry, his wife staring dreamily out unwashed windows.  He buys her a typewriter and does the chores himself while she clicks and clacks and murmurs, lost in her own worlds.  Dinner is more often the right color and texture and she fills the silence with ideas, plots, characters until his head reels with the complexity of her mind and he takes her to bed.

She expands and grows and creates without thought.  Heartbreak comes in the form of twisted insides, blood spilling from where it had not for several months, and she cries because she is too plain to bear his children.  He weeps with her, not only for their loss, but also for her, his wife and mate, who crumples and withers under her failure.

There are doctors and medications and years where they don't even try, the pain of loss after loss is a burden that nearly breaks them both.  She writes and never tells him what she has done with the finished manuscripts.  He knows she has burnt them.

They survive in winter for so long that the arrival of spring can hardly be believed.  They fight, more than ever before, as her belly extends, he because he would shelter her, place her in a cradle of blankets and she because she won't be coddled, won't lie down and let nature take from her again.  

But peace is two baby boys asleep at their mother's side, more than they ever dared to hope for, the most they will ever receive as her body has done its work and won't ever be fertile again.  It's nothing to them now.  He rests against her, one hand snug between his, their, sons and the other curled into her hair.  He has never found her plain, never thought she needed to be more than she was.  She is the fertile soil, the land where he lives, the land he toils for, and she rewards his care with life, with thought, and with love


End file.
